Dropping Like Flies
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: "You broke your own rule." Tino chuckled, collapsing onto his stomach and resting his chin on the floor. "Well, if you put it like that, then yes. But he wasn't a very nice man." Berwald stared at Tino, calculating. "He was a politician." Tino looked embarrassed; it was as if Berwald had commented that his tie and shirt didn't match instead of the fact he had killed a senator.
1. Chapter 1

"That is one hell of a mess."

Tino's cheeks grew slightly pink and he smiled from underneath the desk. "I didn't mean to! It just… Sort of happened." He peeked his head out from under the desk, craning his neck to see out the window. "They didn't follow me, did they?"

Berwald sat in the computer chair a few feet away, staring at Tino like he was a particularly difficult math problem. The people in apartment above were finished eating dinner, if the sound of scraping chairs indicated anything. Berwald took off his glasses.

"You broke your own rule."

Tino chuckled, collapsing onto his stomach and resting his chin on the floor. "Well, if you put it like that, then yes. But he wasn't a very nice man, and he swerved to hit a dog when he was driving. Who does that?"

Berwald stared at Tino, calculating. "He was a politician."

Tino looked embarrassed; it was as if Berwald had commented that his tie and shirt didn't match instead of the fact he had killed a senator. "I know! Usually, I don't go for the high profile people, you know that, but…"

Berwald replaced his glasses. "You want something t' eat?"

Tino's head lifted, and he grinned. "You're too good, Berwald! I don't know what I'd do without you. I was waiting on the rooftop all _day_ before that guy came driving by. What do you have? Oh, were you grading papers? I can help, probably, you know."

Berwald walked to the kitchen, deciding to make breakfast for dinner. Tino usually spent all day working, and never had time for any breakfast foods. Soon the smell of frying eggs and bacon filled the small apartment. Tino army crawled into the kitchen.

"Why did that one student just draw ponies all over his worksheet?"

Berwald glanced down at Tino. "He's a brony."

Tino let out a thoughtful hum. "That doesn't seem like a good excuse not to do your algebra homework. Math is important."

Berwald handed Tino a piece of toast buttered on both sides. "You're just sayin' that 'cause you're a sniper."

Tino devoured the toast. "Well, it's an important skill to have if you are a sniper! Wind sheer, velocity, all of that stuff is very important. Algebra is the first step to being a world famous assassin!"

Both men became aware of the police siren at the same time. Berwald froze. His hands gripped the spatula so hard his knuckles turned white. He was hyper aware of Tino at his feet, tense and dangerous.

There was a knock at the door. Tino was on his feet in a second, knife appearing in his hand. He gestured toward the door and Berwald nodded. He walked over, realizing he had brought the spatula with him.

Berwald opened the door and Tino hid on the other side, ready to… Berwald swallowed.

"Hello?"

"Oh, good," Yao sniffed, peaking into the apartment. "I smell something awful, and I was worried there gas leak. It only your cooking."

Berwald released a deep sigh. "Sorry."

He shut the door and leaned against it, sliding down until he met the floor. Tino was still standing above him, knife out. Berwald looked up at Tino and his knife. Tino was glaring at the door, tensed like he expected it to burst open. The police siren had disappeared. The eggs were burning.

Berwald leaned against Tino's legs. The assassin jumped in surprise before the strain in his muscles eventually drained away. The hand he placed on Berwald's head was the most comforting thing Berwald had ever felt.

"You're infamous, Tino."

Tino laughed. "The two of us, Berwald. What a mess we're in."


	2. Chapter 2

"If there's one thing the world needs more of…"

Alfred swiveled around in his computer chair. "I swear to God, if you say ' _Communism_ ,' you're not allowed in D.C. anymore."

Ivan shrugged, walking over and standing in front of Alfred's desk. "Well, the people voted me in, didn't they?"

Alfred scowled, crossing his arms. "I have no idea how you got voted in running on a platform of _Communism_ ," Alfred shook his head. "Only in _theory_ , of course. Your radio show supporters jump through hoops to prove it isn't called _Communism_."

Ivan shrugged again. "Don't pout because I won the open seat."

Alfred snorted. "I'm not pouting. I cannot believe Stevenson was assassinated. I can't believe that they chose _you_ to replace him! That's like taking ten steps backwards. Stevenson was so Republican he was almost a Leftist."

Ivan smiled and leaned closer to Alfred. "Sometimes, I try to figure out where this rivalry started." He gestured toward the space in between the two of them.

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "When you decided to screw America and head back for the USSR, probably."

Ivan waggled a finger. "No, that just gave you a legitimate reason. At first I thought it was back in college, when that girl asked me out instead of you. And then again when that _boy_ did, but you never really cared much for those close to you."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Please. They only liked you because you had the fanciest car. They thought you were loaded." He rubbed his index finger and thumb together.

Ivan leaned closer. "And then I thought maybe your were jealous because of showering together in high school." Ivan raised his eyebrows, flicking his eyes down. "Maybe, ah, inadequate?"

Alfred's mouth opened slightly, and he squinted at Ivan. Then, his mouth pulled in to a frown. "Dude, I can't tell if you're being serious."

Ivan tapped his nose. "But you know, I have recently figured it out. You do not like that I am like you."

Alfred snorted. "Oh, haha."

Ivan's eyes widened in a very good imitation of sincerity. "No, it's true. You don't like to think it, but we are very alike. All of our lovers have been used as stepping stones; your rich ex-wife funded your campaign. Your siblings used for a pity grab, then abandoned—all in secret, of course."

Alfred's jaw clenched.

Ivan smiled. "You are alone, so am I. Really, I am the only one who has ever been around. Ever since we were little, we knew. We are so different, and yet," he gestured to Alfred's office, "we are in the exact same position."

Alfred glared.

"But what would you do if _I_ was assassinated, Alfred? Wouldn't that mean you should be, too?"


	3. Chapter 3

"This isn't exactly what I had in mind."

Lovino snorted, pressing the gun a little harder against Ludwig's head. The assassin smiled at the two of them, brushing back his hair. He was short, and sort of pudgy, and Lovino had his gun.

"Usually, whoever I'm trying to get to doesn't get threatened by his own boyfriend!" The assassin laughed again, smiling shyly.

"Fuck off, I'm not his boyfriend," Lovino snapped, tightening his arm around Ludwig's throat. "What the fuck do you want with him, you bastard?"

The assassin's smile fell slightly. "You can call me Tino! I don't think you'll be seeing me ever again, so, we can be on a first name basis, I think. Lovino, Ludwig, I'm Tino!"

Lovino took a step back, forcing Ludwig back with him. "No, listen here, you tell me why the fuck you're trying to get to him."

Tino's puckered his lips, thinking. "Hm, I'm sorry, I can't tell you that! I can tell you that it would probably be better to kill him now. I've been sort of fudging my own rules lately, so I've added torturing to my list of things I can do. Whoever wants your boyfriend dead wants him _dead_."

Lovino's breath hitched. "He's not my boyfriend," he yelled, voice cracking. "He's…" Lovino looked down at Ludwig, trying to push back the tears. God, he was such a crybaby. "Ludwig, what do we do?"

Ludwig was on his knees, head tilted slightly away from the gun. Lovino could _feel_ Ludwig's anger, rolling off of him in waves. His whole body was tensed. Lovino was half afraid he would try and tackle Tino.

Tino rocked back and forth on his feet. "I'll give you a couple of minutes to say goodbye, yeah? I have an appointment I have to make in the morning—I don't want to be late!" Tino shook his head, shy smile still there.

Lovino cursed. "No, fuck you! You're not—"

"Lovino."

Lovino looked down. Ludwig's face was blurred from the tears in his eyes. "No, we can't… Ludwig…"

Ludwig stood and grabbed Lovino's face in his hands. "Lovino, I need you to listen very carefully to me. I love you. You may not love me, you might not be _able_ to love me, but I love you. I have never been happier than when you were insulting me."

Lovino felt his face heating up. "No, no, _no_. You can't… Fuck you, you fucking bullshit I can't…" Ludwig kissed him, and Lovino wanted to keep kissing him and punch him at the same time.

"Time's up."

Lovino gasped as he felt something cold slide into him. It suddenly became ten times harder to breath. He dropped, his legs feeling like jelly. He was wet and bleeding, and there was a knife in his side.

Tino grabbed his gun from Lovino's hands and slammed it against Ludwig's temple, causing the larger man to drop like a stone. The assassin waved at Lovino before hauling Ludwig away.


	4. Chapter 4

"I think you've had enough…"

Alfred glanced up from his desk, squinting at the figure in the doorway. "I really don't have time for your sarcastic shit right now, Ivan." His head sank back onto his desk, groping blindly for his bottle.

Ivan shrugged and walked in, shutting the door behind him. He sat down in front of Alfred, resting his hands in his lap. "No drinking on the job, yes?"

"Rememb'r what you said to me? About the assassinating thing?" Alfred grinned, eyes hazy and distant. "Looks like it might happen after all, eh?"

Ivan frowned. "I didn't know you were close to Beilschmidt."

Alfred slammed his fist on the table. "I wassn't! But he was a good man. He always tried to do what was best. He stuck too close to the rules, yeah, but…" Alfred found the bottle at last, taking a long swig. "Did you hear about it, Ivan?"

Ivan shrugged off his suit jacket, sighing.

Alfred continued, ignoring Ivan's disinterest. "They had to do a DAN—NDA—the thing on him. DNA test to identify him. God, and that other one is missing. The Vargas brother. They have no idea where he is."

"I didn't know. Feliciano?" Ivan's eyebrows drew together, and his frown deepened.

"No, the angry one," Alfred answered, lifting his head off the desk. "There's talk about terrorists'n'assassins and…" He sat back in his chair, rolling away from the desk. "Why're you even here?"

Ivan shrugged. "Honestly, I came to make sure you weren't dead."

Alfred laughed and snorted, hand coming up to cover his mouth. "You do care, you Commie, you." Alfred hand fell. "I don't want to go home. It's been so quiet since she's left."

"You shouldn't have divorced her, then."

Alfred shook his head, rolling his eyes. "No, I needed the money. How's your sisters?"

Ivan folded his coat, shrugging. "They are how they always are."

Alfred ran a hand over his face. "Shit, the investigator's comin' tomorrow. I'm going to look like absolute crap."

Ivan folded his coat into a pillow, putting it on Alfred's desk. "I do not think so. Maybe like you're hung over, but you never look like crap. It's why you got reelected."

The blond head collapsed onto the pillow. "Thanks, dude. Your seat isn't even gonna' be _warm_ by the time we gonna' have to replace you. Oh!" Alfred's head lifted an inch. "Who's gonna' get knocked first? You'r'me?"

Ivan stole Alfred's bottle, taking a long drink. It was barely half empty; Ivan wondered if there was another one hidden underneath Alfred's desk. "You."

Alfred moaned. "Fuck," he drew out the word. "I don't even understand why they were both killed. Ludwig was a straight laced mother fucker, Stevenson was shifty, sure, and Vargas was practically a call girl to the lobbyists."

Ivan hummed in agreement.

Alfred laughed. "How many times have I done this?"

"Done what?"

"Gotten shit faced and then called you?"

Ivan smiled faintly. "Only when you're drunk enough and can't remember the next morning." He continued to drink from the bottle. "This is good."

"It was a divorce anniversary present from the Missus."

Ivan's head ducked as he smiled. "I really wished I could have met your wife before you so rudely got rid of her. She and I sound like we would have gotten along."

Alfred snorted. "Well, you both were sarcastic fuckers, so there's that. You both also suck my v'ry life force from me." Alfred threw his hands in the air, keeping his head on the table. "You were also pale blond, but that doesn't have to do with anythin'."

Ivan put his feet up on the desk.

"Ludwig…" Alfred sighed. "He didn't deserve that. Yeah, he was such a Democrat it hurt, but… He was a good man. He brought good things to the table."

Ivan sighed. "For someone willing to throw people under the bus willy-nilly, you're awfully soft when it comes to certain people. You shot down every idea Beilschmidt presented. You bludgeoned it to death, yes?"

"Well, yes, but following that logic, you should be assassinated too, Ivan. He was good. Better than you."

Ivan shook his head. "Remember our talk, Alfred. He would be better than you, too."

Alfred's shoulders slumped. "He was."

* * *

 **To nice anon who alerted me: thank you. I'm copy-and-pasting this from Tumblr, and Fanfiction doesn't understand converting different font styles.**


	5. Chapter 5

"Why are you wearing that?"

Tino jumped, turning around on his heel and laughing. "Oh, Berwald, I didn't see you! You almost scared the life out of me," Tino shook his head, hand resting over his heart. "Why aren't you asleep, it's almost—"

Berwald stood from the couch, taking a step forward. "Tino, why are you wearin' that?" His accent was getting thicker, and every word out of his mouth sounded like it pained him.

Tino popped his lips, frowning. "Berwald, you told me you didn't—"

"I don't," Berwald cut in. "Why'd you come home wearin' that?"

Tino looked down at his gloves, thinking. They were nice gloves, thick for when Tino slipped with his knife when he was working. He had gotten them in a nice, tan leather, but they had been stained dark by blood. He should get something in black next time, though he hated the color.

"Well, I couldn't go home," Tino explained gently, tugging his gloves off, "I would have changed before I came over, but they have these… Investigators. I think they have my house pegged."

Berwald stood in the center of the room, fists clenched. "How close are you?"

Tino tugged off his shirt, grimacing. "Close to what, Berwald?"

"How close are you t' bein' caught?"

Tino kicked off his pants, then collected his clothing. "That's a good question, actually. I've been careful—I always am, don't worry!—but well, I can't keep going after politicians, can I? After that German one, people have been crazy. Oh," Tino paused on his way to the kitchen, "You got a tree! We still have three weeks to go! Can I help you decorate it?"

Berwald followed after Tino, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "Tino…"

Tino stopped abruptly, turning to face Berwald. The taller man took a step back, eyes flicking downwards before meeting Tino's eyes again. The shorter man smiled, clothes under one arm, feeling chilly in his boxers.

"Berwald, I can either tell you about my work, or you have to stop asking." He looked down at his feet. "One of them lived."

Berwald's breath hitched.

Tino shook his head, smiling at his feet. "I got him right in the lung," he reached up to demonstrate, "right there. It collapses the lung. But that angry man… He lived. I don't know his condition, but I'm going to have to try and fix this."

Berwald swallowed. "You have t' leave."

Tino looked up, laughing. "Oh, no, not yet! Just a few more, Berwald, then I'm quitting for good. We could go to Finland, they have really good schools there. Did you get more eggs? Or maybe pancakes…"

Tino began to raid the fridge, handing Berwald his bloodied clothes.

Berwald looked at the clothes in his hands, then back to Tino. He repeated this action. "You're takin' me with you?"

Tino snorted, nearly banging his head as he looked up from the fridge. "Of course, Berwald! What would you do if I left you here, huh?" Tino stuck his tongue out. "Besides, I couldn't have you telling on me."

Berwald set aside the clothes on the counter. "I would never." He watched Tino from behind, arms crossed. "Who's hirin' you?"

Tino pulled out the carton of eggs Berwald kept handy. "I can't tell you that!"

"Who's next?"

Tino found a frying pan. "Hm… Should I give you a hint?"

Berwald tilted his head, amused, despite himself.

Tino set the frying pan and eggs down, running into Berwald's room. Berwald craned his neck to catch a peak of Tino in his dark bedroom. The shorter man ran back, wearing one of Berwald's jackets. He stood in front of Berwald, smoothing out his face.

"America!" Tino exclaimed, giving Berwald a thumbs up and grinning so wide it looked painful.

Berwald blinked. "Really?"

Tino laughed, turning on the stove. "You didn't hear it from me! Poor Mr. Jones."

Berwald stood, starting to make toast. "When?"

Tino snuggled into Berwald's jacket, enjoying the warmth it brought him. He should definitely find some spare clothes to keep at this apartment. He would have to visit one of his safe-houses to find some extra—with his house being surrounded by police force and all—but he could manage.

"Christmas. I guess he lives alone. That's pretty sad, huh?" Tino cracked an egg. "I feel bad that he's going to be alone the last night he's alive—and on Christmas. We should do something special that night."

"I have somethin'."

Tino looked at Berwald, looking absolutely delighted. The assassin loved Christmas more than he'd care to admit. "Really? What were you thinkin'?"

Berwald shook his head, buttering both sides of some toast for Tino. "It's a surprise. Just…" He sighed.

Berwald sometimes did that; it was the saddest sigh Tino had ever heard. Berwald was never very good with his words, but the dexterity and feeling conveyed in the little things he did was both endearing and heart wrenching. Tino hated that sigh more than he hated screaming or prying fingernails off.

"I'll change before I visit." Tino flipped the eggs.

Berwald abandoned the toast. He strode over to the shorter man and hugged him from behind, burying his face in Tino's shoulder. Tino laughed, reaching up to pet Berwald's hair.

"Why can't we just leave?" Berwald mumbled.

Tino honestly didn't know himself.


	6. Chapter 6

The last words spoken by Lovino Vargas were "Tino."

Alfred kept rolling the name over and over in his mind. The police and media were in an absolute frenzy; Alfred, meanwhile, was usually at home, working and watching television. Mainly working, actually. And drinking.

Down line Alfred drifted, nodding and smiling at people he recognized. If one thing was true, the Vargas family sure could throw together a tasteful funeral. Alfred made a face and grabbed at a passing tray of champagne. Closer and closer he inched toward the casket.

"Pick a god and pray."

Alfred started, nearly dropping his drink. "Senator Braginski," Alfred greeted, flicking his hand to rid it of the spilled alcohol. "What a surprise! I was beginning to miss our cryptic, creepy chats."

Ivan stood by his side, his dark suit highlighted with a happy yellow flower. "My mother used to tell me that. Pick a god. I wonder if Vargas used to pray."

The younger Vargas' wailing finally reached Alfred's ears. "Fucked if I know," Alfred said lowly, taking a step closer, "But did you hear? Woke up in the middle of the night screaming 'Tino,' then died. Jesus—You finishing that?" Alfred swiped Ivan's drink.

Ivan hummed, standing on the tip of his toes to see over the rest of the line.

"What a terrible day for a funeral. Christmas Eve," Alfred sighed, staring down into his fancy crystal cup.

"What would you have been doing otherwise?" Ivan asked, tilting his head. "You have disappeared from the public eye. I understanding—I understand they missed you at the ice rink this year." Ivan broke off a moment to greet a congressman from Utah. "Afraid of the assassin?"

"Everyone's afraid of the assassin," Alfred breathed, taking a long sip. "No, I'm just close to finishing the proposal. It—Feliciano!"

The younger Vargas gave Alfred a wavering smile, which crumbled in a moment. "Alfred, thank you so much for coming!" He pulled the senator into a hug, burying his face into Alfred's shoulder. "I know you guys g—got along well—"

Alfred comforted Feliciano, glaring as Ivan smiled serenely from his spot in line. "Hey, hey, it's okay! At least you got to see him before—before he passed. Even if…"

Even if Lovino had staggered into a gas station, bleeding and half dead. Even if Feliciano had flown across the country to see his brother, hold his hand, be with him—to only have him scream that one stupid name. Even if your older brother stole your fiancé.

"At least he's in a better place, right?" Alfred finally tried. He shouldn't have worn his contacts; Feliciano's crying and his poor vision made Alfred want to down back a bottle of aspirin to relieve his headache. "Hey, now, come on, Feliciano. It's—"

"Everyone's been saying it's okay," Feliciano pulled away, shaking his head.

Ivan chose this time to intervene. "Mr. Vargas, your brother was a good man…"

Alfred finally escaped, wanting very much to punch a wall. Instead, he flitted around the hall, talking with the other mourners. It was painful in the hall; everyone desperately wanted to talk about the events leading up to Lovino's death. However, no one knew how many cameras were hidden in potted plants and under chairs.

To the bar Alfred went, ordering two drinks. He sipped on his own, talking to the Senator to his left. Nothing much was said—How are the kids, don't have any, you?—but at least it kept Alfred's mind focused on something other than Feliciano's crying.

Ivan joined him a few minutes later, taking the second drink. Alfred purposely ignored him, carrying on the conversation with the other Senator until he left. Ivan ordered another two drinks, raising his eyebrows slightly as Alfred turned to him. They sat in stubborn silence.

"Never knew you were in to pity sex," Alfred finally muttered, shooting Ivan a smile before picking up the other drink.

"Are you jealous, Alfred?" Ivan asked under his breath, waving at a lobbyist.

"Wait…" Alfred turned slightly in his seat. "Did you get Feliciano to stop crying?"

Ivan ducked his head and smiled. "I blessed Lovino's spirit with an ancient Russian prayer."

Another stubborn silence. Alfred squinted at his fellow senator.

Ivan leaned closer, small smile as present as always. "My mother also told me this. She says to me, 'If you ever be needing a prayer for some American, just say the Russian alphabet three times.' May Vargas rest in peace."

Alfred blew bubbles into his drink, nearly splattering his tuxedo with whiskey. He laughed, half snorting and choking. Ivan slapped Alfred on the back a couple of times as Alfred recovered. It took a good few minutes.

"It's all in what you believe, Mr. Jones," Ivan finished, "And Feliciano was greatly comforted by the ABCs."

"Good lord, I don't think I've seen you try to get into anyone's pants this hard since you stole every single of my girlfriends in college," Alfred shook his head, gaze on fixed on the far wall, but grin plastered on his face.

"Well, pity sex is my thing."

"Are you saying you pity them because they dated—" Alfred shook his finger at Ivan, clicking his tongue. "Easy, easy, there, tiger. You go off—another whiskey, please—sprouting that sort of nonsense then we can't be friends."

Ivan gave a noncommittal hum, watching as Alfred continued to drink. There was another lull. Feliciano started back up with his sobbing in the background, making everybody in the vicinity hunch their shoulders and scuttle away. Alfred's mirth slipped away; he switched his attention back to his alcohol.

"But tell, this bill you are working so hard on," Ivan leaned against the bar, head resting his on hand, full attention on Alfred.

Alfred squinted at Ivan. He let out a frustrated growl and removed his contacts, blinking and focusing on Ivan. "Can't tell you that."

"Mm, you can. You won't. Very well," he went to stand.

Alfred groaned and waved his hand, motioning for Ivan to remain seated. "I'm calling it 'George Washington's Bill.'"

Ivan sat straight, eyes narrowing. "You are going after the parties?"

Alfred wiggled the fingers on his hands. "Well, we all know I ran as independent. Look, I'm getting out of here before I get totally wasted. Have to mail presents to the nieces and nephews, work," Alfred waved his hand in the way of a rest of an explanation.

Alfred stood, putting a tip down for the barman.

"Wait."

Ivan reached out and caught Alfred's wrist, releasing it just as fast. He ran a hand over his face, something he had picked up from Alfred. That was strange. Alfred paused, rubbing his wrist and hovering near Ivan. Eventually, the other man's smile returned.

"Nothing, never mind. Merry Christmas, Alfred."

* * *

 **Senators:** Representatives from states. Two from each state.

 **Lobbyist:** Someone who caters for a company's needs in the government. For instance, oil and plastic lobbyists.

 **Democrats and Republicans:** The two party system in which America organizes its government. Democrats fall on the left side of the political scale, Republicans right. Democrats want a larger government, Republicans a smaller one.

 **Independent:** One who runs for office and does not affiliate with either party.

 **Reference to George Washington:** After resigning from presidency, Washington advised America to do three things. One of these was to avoid a two party system. The US promptly ignored this and his other two suggestions.


	7. Chapter 7

"He's weird," Gilbert decided.

The other heads at the lunch table swiveled to Alfred, who was playing with his sandwich and watching the newcomer. Alfred's father had told him to _be nice_ , but Gilbert was right—he _was_ weird.

But, more importantly, he was the focus of the whole school. The shy boy had walked in, head ducked and hands clenched at his sides. He was too tall, too pale, and too blond. He couldn't speak English. He had followed after Alfred the first few days, until Gilbert drove him off.

"He's from Russia," Alfred said loudly, squinting, "They're just weird there."

Gilbert laughed, and the rest of the children followed suit. "He's totally weird. Why was he following you around, anyways? Is he your friend?"

The heads turned to Alfred, who was watching the Russian fidget at the front of the lunch room; without Alfred, he had nowhere to sit. The rest of the school had joined in Gilbert's scorn, moving to fill up seats whenever the boy attempted to sit with them.

Alfred's father had dressed him up, brushing back his hair and telling him to _be a good boy_. The family that walked through the Jones' front door wasn't like the usual people; they looked too stiff in their clothing, and they touched the nice furniture when they thought no one was looking.

There was a boy, Ivan. He followed after his family like a lost dog, constantly being shooed away by his mother. According to his father, this boy was going to Alfred's school. Alfred made a face. The boy was too old to be going to the Academy, but he still showed up on Monday.

"My father's sending him here," Alfred finally answered, shrugging. "Some of his family came over, and we had a dinner together. There were cameras an' stuff, so it was probably one of _those_ things."

Gilbert and the rest of the table nodded sympathetically; they all dreaded the dinners, the parties, the boring speeches their fathers made. The boys on the television didn't have to go to those, they played football and soccer. Alfred was the envy of everyone because he got to play sports while _they_ had to go home and help with paperwork.

Alfred watched from afar as Ivan suffered. Gilbert and his gang would tease the boy, saying nonsense words and pushing Ivan around when he didn't understand. Kids avoided him, the weirdo who didn't have nice clothes and was too short for his advanced age.

But still, Alfred had those _dinners_ with Ivan's family. He and Ivan would be seated across from one another as Alfred' father—Congressman Jones—would laugh with Ivan's father. Ivan would stare beseechingly at Alfred, who wanted nothing more than to go to his room and ignore this whole affair.

This evening was no different, Ivan's and Alfred's family talking loudly at one end of the table as the reporters buzzed around and Ivan and Alfred staring awkwardly at each other. Alfred messed the order of the silverware up; Ivan used the same fork for every meal.

"Is Gilbert your friend?"

Alfred gaped at Ivan, who ducked his head. "Dude, you can speak English? Why don't you talk at school?"

Ivan shrugged, looking down at his empty plate. Why was he wearing a scarf? It was already spring. Silence overwhelmed them again, and Alfred slumped in his seat. One of the cameras focused in on Alfred, and the smile his father had taught him jumped onto his face.

When the reporter walked away, Alfred saw Ivan looking at him curiously. Alfred made a face, and was surprised to see a warm smile on Ivan's face. Alfred found himself grinning, and Ivan made a face back.

When summer came, Alfred was relieved. Without the Academies overbearing teachers, Alfred finally could relax. Ivan disappeared from his life, and was all too soon forgotten.

Alfred saw Mattie and his mother, which was strange. His father dropped Alfred off with his overnight bag, telling him to be a _good boy_ , and drove off. His mother and Mattie lived in a tiny house, but it was warm and cozy. Matthew toys weren't limited to his room, but all over.

Alfred loved it. He quickly made a group of friends and roamed the neighborhood with them on his bike. Just like at school, the boys would look to Alfred for leadership in their exploits.

Unlike Gilbert, however, Matthew usually put a _stop_ to their more mischievous adventures. Whenever Alfred was dared to ride his bike over the stream, Mattie would be there, telling Alfred he would break his arm. When the neighborhood boys were throwing rocks at stray dogs, Matthew would whip pebbles at Alfred's head.

Soon, September crept back through the trees. Alfred was returned to Congressman Jones in subpar condition; his mother had let Alfred grow wild. No longer would he sit through his piano lessons—he wanted to play the guitar. He wanted to watch cartoons, like Mattie did. He wanted pancakes and a bike and not to help with paperwork. Alfred would stick his tongue out at the camera man. Matthew was forced over for sleepovers, bringing more of his heretic ways with him.

When Alfred was sent to the Academy's middle school, he ripped off the uniform's tie and threw it in his backpack.

Alfred no longer fit in with Gilbert's group. They teased kids who were smaller than them, and made fun of smart girls; all Alfred could think about were pebbles.

Alfred quickly found more friends. There was Kiku, who was the son of an ambassador, who would help Alfred on his math homework and play videogames with him. There was a grumpy boy named Lovino who taught Alfred swears and the geography of Europe.

But, more important, there was the boy named Toris.

Alfred wasn't the only one who had changed over the summer. Ivan had shot up like a weed. Technically a sophomore, Ivan was huge in comparison to the tiny seventh graders. The shy boy who had made faces with Alfred was gone; in his stead was a bully with a vengeance.

Gilbert got into fist fights with Ivan often, losing and being hauled off by the nurse and the principal. Other boys—one named Berwald, who was nearly as large as Ivan despite being an eighth grader—would stare down Ivan as he walked down the halls. Ivan would have been king, had he not picked on Toris.

It was why Alfred had become friends with him, actually.

Alfred was walking through the halls, minding his own business, when he had spotted Ivan leering at Toris. Surprisingly, they were talking in a language Alfred couldn't understand. Something about the scene didn't seem right, so Alfred waltzed over.

"Everything alright here, Ivan?" Alfred asked loudly, stepping up next to the pair.

Ivan smiled, glancing over. "Yes, Alfred."

"Hey, your English got better!" Alfred nodded, slapping Ivan on the back. "Hey, buddy, I'm proud. What're you doin', talking in Russian?"

Ivan turned on Alfred, glaring down at him with that smile taped to his face. Alfred crossed his arms, looking up at Ivan and frowning. There was a moment of silence as they stared at one another, Toris looking between them.

Alfred tilted his head, eyes flicking up and down Ivan's torso. "What happened, dude?"

Alfred never found out, nor did he really care too. Ivan turned his focus on Alfred's group of friends, pushing them or knocking their books onto the ground. Toris especially was tormented, and Alfred began to defend and then befriend him. Alfred was the one boy who stood up to Ivan.

However, the whole school did wonder. For claiming only to want to help his friends, Alfred _was_ oddly antagonistic towards Ivan. The Russian, meanwhile, was surprisingly peaceful towards Alfred—only a handful of black eyes, as compared to Gilbert and Berwald.

It became slightly more apparent when the school opened up a debate class. Alfred joined as soon as he heard Ivan had. Regardless of the subject, each boy would choose opposing sides. More debates ended in near fistfights than could be counted.

Midway through the year, Alfred realized that his grades were slacking. He began to bring his homework in on time, and his hand was one of the first ones up in the air. Ivan, who was in several of Alfred's classes, began to shape up, too. His English skills grew, and he was just as good as Alfred in math and science.

The first day of eighth grade, Alfred introduced himself as "Alfred F. Jones, future president of the United States of America."

No one in the class noticed when Alfred grinned and winked at Ivan.


	8. Chapter 8

Lovino gazed at the motel ceiling. Ludwig was talking to Feliciano in the bathroom; he usually did, trying to smother the conversation with his hand. Lovino could still hear the quiet reassurances, the pleading tones. Maybe Ludwig _knew_ he could hear.

It was a miracle they hadn't been caught. Skulking around in limos, breakfasts in dirty motels—it should have been a field day for the reporters. But there was nothing in the headlines. Just motel ceilings and whispered conversations.

One morning, over watery coffee, Lovino asked who Ludwig loved more.

"I just want to know. I mean," Lovino looked at the spot of the newspaper where Ludwig's face must have been, "Obviously you love one of us more."

The newspaper tightened in Ludwig's hands. "Lovino, please. I can't do this today."

Lovino felt his anger bubbled in his stomach. He made his voice calm, his eyes half lidded. "Do what, Ludwig? It's just a question."

Ludwig set the newspaper down, massaging his eyes with one hand. That was one thing Ludwig never did when he was with Feliciano—no, with Feliciano, he only had a set smile. At least Lovino could get a reaction. Something out of Ludwig.

"It's different, I've told you," Ludwig said, voice still loud and distinct, even when he didn't want to be talking. "I can't love one of you 'more.'"

Lovino gritted his teeth. "Yes, you can. How can you not have a favorite Vargas brother? Everyone does."

But maybe Ludwig didn't love either of them more.

He needed Feliciano for the press releases, the homemaker husband who could laugh about the most recent fundraiser and bake cookies for school events. Ludwig had come out during his campaign, and had proposed to Feliciano near the election.

Feliciano had admitted later that it had been his idea, and that Ludwig had to practice for weeks to propose without fumbling the speech or getting tense with nerves.

The bathroom door opened. Lovino listened to the quiet noises that Ludwig made as he got dressed. Lovino sat up, watched Ludwig's form in the dark. No breakfast this time, just like the last time.

"What did he want?" Ludwig's shoulders tensed. "Is he still suspicious? Can only run off to so many meetings before he catches on. He's not that stupid."

Ludwig checked himself in the dingy mirror in the corner of the room. It was cracked, and someone had written a phone number in greasy lipstick that management hadn't quite washed off. Someone in the next room was talking loudly in Spanish.

Ludwig looked too clean against the rest of the room. Like a negative. Lovino clambered out of bed and walked behind Ludwig. The man didn't move from in front of the mirror. Lovino rested his forehead in between Ludwig's shoulder blades. The tension drained from Ludwig's body and he sighed.

"He was upset some reporters came knocking around. They wanted to know where I was and why I was seen somewhere around that motel near that diner." Ludwig moved, probably fixing his hair.

"Is it bad?" Lovino closed his eyes, enjoying the proximity. He wondered if Feliciano ever asked Ludwig about his job. Would Feliciano even understand? What's a filibuster, what's a stalemate, what does a tea party have anything to do with it?

"Jones has been raising hell. God, they're all raising hell. I have a meeting later today with an old friend. Something might be worked out." A beat of silence. Ludwig's phone beeped, and Lovino moved away.

Lovino sank back into the warm covers. "Don't go. You've been making excuses too, you know. Not so fun after the first few months, is it?" He leered at Ludwig's weary look. "Married to your job."

It _had_ been fun at first. It had been flirting. Whenever Lovino visited Feliciano, he would catch Ludwig looking at him, asking questions about obscure things Feliciano had told them.

"I heard that you're being audited," Ludwig had said one day. They were waiting for Feliciano to gather his things for a speech the president was giving. "How is that?"

Lovino grinned. "Long and hard."

"I'm not in the mood for your snark." Ludwig's voice was icy as he pulled on his jacket. He nodded vaguely at Lovino before leaving.

Lovino pulled a pillow over his head. Ludwig would probably pay the tab for the room. They had gotten in at two, so maybe three hours? Motels were a God-send. Cheap, and they didn't ask questions when two well-dressed men wanted a room for the night.

The sheets still smelled of Ludwig and Lovino kicked them off.

* * *

 **I should perhaps warn you this is the last chapter I have written.**

 **So, it's a mystery when the next chapter will be. Gonna' be a doozy though.**


	9. Chapter 9

Ivan wondered what the protocol was for identifying dead bodies.

He assumed there must be a way to contact the living. Maybe there was a sheet you were supposed to fill out, writing down your ex-wife's number for the coroner and mortician. He had never filled out a sheet like this.

It wasn't even snowing. It would have been better if there was snow. There were just gusts of wind that nipped at hands and noses. The sky was bleak and blue, and there were people sobbing behind Ivan in the isles.

Maybe the wake had been better. It was possible that some of Alfred's friends had gotten together, laughing to one another at the stupid shit Alfred used to do. Maybe Gilbert had been there, forcing away his insecurities through stories about Alfred in college.

Ivan hadn't gone to the wake.

Tino.

The coffin was lowered into the ground. They used a little wench to drop it, and the whole thing was almost funny. The wind, the sniffles, the wench, the men standing nearby, ready to fill in the hole.

The gravestone wasn't nearly as pompous as it should have been.

" _Tino_?"

Ivan smiled. "Did I stutter?"

Eduard attempted to keep his aloof look, but it faltered under Ivan's withering look. Ivan liked Eduard when he wasn't trying to be clever and insulting. It was too forced and haughty, and sometimes Ivan liked to keep insulting him until the façade broke. It wasn't one of those days.

"I—no." Eduard looked at his computer, fingers flying over the keys like spiders. He didn't type with his thumbs. "It can't be Tino," Eduard tried again, meeting Ivan's eyes evenly.

"I'm not in the mood. Vargas was screaming his name when he died. Same destruction of the face, same torture. It was him." Ivan glanced down at Eduard, watched the way the computer man straightened in his seat, a smirk attempting to etch its way into his face. "I would think you would be wanting to catch an assassin."

Eduard rolled his eyes, but he had to delete a line of whatever he was typing. "Of course I want to catch him. Washington's been in a panic."

Ivan watched the man's posture, ramrod and proper, feet pressed against the ground. Ivan neared, looking over Eduard's shoulder. It was a bunch of search engines, but Ivan caught sight of Facebook in the browser.

"Is that Facebook?" He asked, pointing on the screen.

Eduard glared at the smudge on his screen, and glanced quickly over at Ivan. "I was on before you decided to drop by." But there was something wrong with that, and Ivan sighed.

Today was not the day for this. Eduard had always been a little disobedient, a little uppity. Ivan had brought the man over from Europe to work in his campaign, to manage the message boards and hack anyone who was spreading false information. Or accurate information. It worked well.

Ivan was still cold from the burial. He had caught sight of a woman that must have been Alfred's ex-wife. She was stunningly beautiful. She had his hair color.

Friendships could be leveraged, and Ivan made it his business to have leverage. His career, actually.

Eduard admitted he had contact with Tino in the past, eyes down and teeth gritted. Poor, black-mailed, little Eduard.

Ivan smiled down at the computer man, and he wondered what it looked like. "I'm having the feeling you are emotionally compromised. Don't looking so sullen, now we are both emotionally compromised. Find him and tell me."

Eduard adjusted his glasses and looked away.

Ivan left the warehouse, stepping back into the winter air. Alfred was gone. It was a strange feeling. Ivan made sure the smile was still on his face.

Tino.

Everyone was emotionally compromised.


End file.
